


Prompts From Scumbag College

by scumbaganarchy



Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Shorts, Tumblr Prompt, just for fun, not a flowing story, will be updated with new batches now and then
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 00:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy
Summary: These are all prompts I've received and posted on Tumblr about The Young Ones. Some involve ships, some don't - none of them are really connected. Also, due to them coming in batches, these probably aren't the best written pieces ever, although I do always put effort in.





	1. I'm a romantic, I know ALL the pick-up-lines. Every single one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike tries to show off his expertise with the ladies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by salamander-bastard on Tumblr.

It wouldn’t be a party without Mike the cool person trying to chat up at least one girl.

The clock said - although Rick and Vyvyan couldn’t read it - that it was now half past two in the morning. This meant that most people had already gone home and left the student house an even greater dump than usual: broken bottles, empty cups and suspicious stains were a few of the unpleasant additions now littering the kitchen and drawing room. Neil especially was scared to check upstairs for the havoc that had surely transpired throughout the bedrooms. It was Mike then, the suavest of the group, with his confidence exacerbated further by the alcohol, who was the one trying the keep the party’s spirit going.

There were a couple of girls still hanging around and Mike took this as a sign of interest. Specifically, of interest in him. Rick had sighed angrily and made enough pointed glares at them to suggest that he wanted them to go but of course he would do this, Mike reasoned, because he knew that there wasn’t a lion (never mind a cat) in hell’s chance of them sleeping with him when Mike was a viable option. He wandered over to the so-called people’s poet to assure him that the girls would be out of his sight soon enough.

“Uh, Mike, are you sure you can even… you know,” Rick laughed childishly at the suggestion of sex, “You have had a lot to dwrink. Besides, bir- I mean girls aren’t just for pervy bedtime adventures.” He always had to take some kind of moral high ground, didn’t he?

“I’m a romantic, I know ALL the pick-up-lines. Every single one. The likelihood of me not scoring is exactly the same as the number of elephants who’ve been to the moon: none,” Mike told him very seriously, taking no note of Rick’s slight confusion, “Now, do we have an understanding or do you need further persuasion?” He pointed vaguely at Vyvyan, who was lying sprawled across the couch with a half drunk bottle of vodka. Rick rolled his eyes.

“Oh, how very mature of you! Trying to intimidate me with someone so clearly out of it I bet he couldn’t even hit me if I was stood right next to him!” the poet declared, crossing his arms smugly. A moment later, the half drunk bottle of vodka smashed into his face, causing him to yell out dramatically.

“Shut up, you poof!” Vyvyan growled in annoyance, getting up to stomp off upstairs.

“Vyvyan! You bastard! You could have killed me!” Rick screamed at him, seeming to have forgotten the girls in his fury as he tore after the punk. Mike turned to Neil, who was sitting slouched in a corner with a typically sour look on his face.

“Am I going to have any trouble?” he asked.

“No but, I mean, even if you were and it was from me it’s not like you’d notice anyway because no one ever reacts to a single thing I do in this house-” the hippie continued to complain about how badly done to he was but Mike was already gone.

He sauntered over to the girls. Two! Not a bad old number!

“Hello ladies, lovely evening, wouldn’t ya say?” he greeted, slinking his arm skilfully around the closest one, a blonde. She and her friend looked him up and down in mild disdain.

“Sorry, who are you?” the blonde asked whilst removing his arm from her waist. Mike laughed as if she’d said something hilarious.

“My name’s Michael but you can call me the man of your dreams. I live here, I have the biggest bedroom,” he informed her suggestively, lightly pinching her bottom. Her friend, a brunette, gasped and slapped him across the face.

“Sexist pig! Come on, Jen, this party’s been dead for hours,” she grumbled and took her friend’s hand. The duo quickly existed, leaving Mike stood in the middle of the room with quite literally a red face.

Neil clapped from his corner.

“Nice to see someone else have the bad luck for a change,” the hippie told him. He sounded almost amused. Mike let out a long sigh and made his way towards the staircase.

“Don’t breathe a word of that to anyone, Neil, you hear me?”


	2. Well this is a predicament.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads wind up in the hospital after driving off the cliff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by sweetheartiero on Tumblr.

“Well this is a predicament.”

There had been many opportunities over the four students’ time at Scumbag College for anyone of them to utter these five words yet it was not until they found themselves bedridden inside the local hospital that they did. As it happened, they said it simultaneously. Well, apart from Vyvyan, who was being treated separately in another room because his injuries were apparently more severe.

According to the doctors and nurses, they were lucky to be alive at all after driving full speed off that cliff and then blowing up. They’d even been given a private ward because the other patients had refused to be treated next to such stupid bloody students. Neil didn’t really consider their survival that lucky as they were still technically homeless and had the worst grades in the world. Plus, his hair had been partly scorched so it was all different lengths. Bad karma.

Mike, the least harmed of the group with somehow just a broken arm and leg, had been able to obtain a copy of this week’s news due to constant pestering of the female staff. The boys were glad to learn that nothing of their bank robbery had been reported; it was as if the world considered them so insignificant that not even the Fascist Pig Bank was bothered by their thievery.

“Oh god!” Rick moaned sorrowfully for the seventh time that hour. A predicament this well and truly was! Whatever were they going to do with themselves now? “What a tragedy! I was so young, so healthy, so pwretty and society’s struck me down. I’ll probably be a cripple for the rest of my life!” He began sobbing, which wasn’t for the first time, in self pity. The others would have told him to shut up a couple of days ago but they’d long lost hope of that ever happening.

“Rick, you’re not going to be a cripple. The doc said you should be fit as a fiddle by Easter,” Mike reminded him tiredly.

“Yes, Michael, but Easter is nine months away!” the poet snivelled.

“Well at least you’re not me,” Neil complained back to him, “I mean, both my legs have been crushed and I’ve broken my wrist. Not to mention all these uncool burns I got from that really heavy explosion.” He would walk again, the doctor had told him, but there was no way any housework would get done beforehand. Oh wait.

“Oh, shut up, Neil! It’s always self, self, self with you, isn’t it? What about me? My collar bone’s been snapped in half and just about all of my ribs are cracked! You’re not the only burn victim here, you know? My face is as red as anything!” Rick wailed indignantly, wincing at the way his chest moved.

“As red as what?” the hippie repeated.

“Anything!” the poet reiterated.

“But anything isn’t-”

“Would you shut up for five seconds, you big girls!” a familiar voice boomed from the entrance to the ward. The three heads turned to see Vyvyan in a wheelchair. It was the first time they’d clapped eyes on him since the accident.

“Vyv, you’re alive!” Mike cheered, cracking a smile. None of them would admit it but they were relieved to see the punk largely unscathed. Rick, for one, already had to deal with his parents’ funeral at some point and wasn’t sure he could stomach Vyvyan’s as well… even though he drove him up the wall most days.

“Of course, Michael, it’s gonna take a lot more than an exploding bus to kill me!” Vyvyan told him proudly, wheeling himself over to their beds, “I see you’re all just as boring as you were last week.” Rick immediately snapped back into focus, his shock at seeing the punk having worn off.

“I’m sorry if serious injuries bore you, Vyvyan! Where are all the nasty ones you’re supposed to have?” he demanded. Vyvyan shrugged.

“Well, I’ve got this-” he twisted his head to show off an impressive scar on his right cheek, “-oh, and my legs are still broken. Everything else has largely healed up.” At Rick’s outraged expression, Vyvyan smirked, “I’m exceptionally indestructible. Brilliant, isn’t it?”

The poet was about to respond that it was actually extremely rude of the punk to be so unaffected considering he had been the one driving when Vyvyan laughed loudly and pointed at him.

“Did you know that one of your stupid, girly braids are missing, poo-face?” he asked. Mike and even Neil appeared to brighten up at Vyvyan’s glee. Rick’s eyes widened. He couldn’t reach behind his head to check for sure, either.

“WHAT!?!”


	3. That sigh was a lot louder than I intended it to be.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyvyan is unusually nice to Neil when the others aren't around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Guggi04 on Tumblr.

“Bored!” Vyvyan yelled in his usual ear-shattering tones, “Bored! Bored! Bored! Bored! BORED!!!”

He was currently barging around the house, hitting the walls and anything that looked like it belonged to Rick with a wooden bat. The spotty nuisance was out at the moment at one of his Anarchists Society meetings and Vyvyan had half a mind to gatecrash it to show him what anarchy actually looked like! Mike, too, was out doing ‘business’… although, when Vyvyan had asked him what this 'business’ entailed and whether he could come along the cool person had gotten all shifty and exited rather quickly.

Even SPG seemed to be in hiding, the ungrateful git, which just left the hippie.

“Neil, I’m hungry! Where’s my tea?” the punk demanded as he crashed his way into what Rick referred to as the 'drawing room’. Neil was stood by the windows at the back of the kitchen, watching something. He didn’t respond. Vyvyan stomped towards him and smashed his bat against the table a couple of times, “Oi, hippie! Are you deaf? I asked where’s my tea!” It was during experiences such as these that the punk felt most proud of his vocal strength.

At last, Neil turned to face Vyvyan, his face showing no sign that he had listened to a word he’d said. He furrowed his brow.

“What?” Neil asked.

Vyvyan rolled his eyes. God! Was it really so much to ask to be fed around here?

“The tea, Neil, where is it?” he repeated just as loudly. The hippie groaned and began to slouch over to the cupboards.

“Oh, that,” he muttered, “I wrongly assumed that, like, since the others were out tonight and all, I might get a bit of peace for once but I should have realised that you hate me so of course I’d still have to slave away in here.” His tone was reaching the level of unfriendliness usually only reserved for Rick. Vyvyan scrunched up his face and put the bat down.

“Hate’s a strong word, I was only asking for my tea,” he backtracked indignantly.

“Sure, Vyv, sure,” Neil replied sarcastically, not even looking at him and simply continuing to scour the cupboards - probably for stray lentils. He let out a long sigh before slamming the crooked door of the obviously empty cupboard shut with a BANG!

No one spoke.

“That sigh was a lot louder than I intended it to be. We’ve got literally nothing in,” the hippie explained, despite the sound of the door far overpowering the sound of his sigh; perhaps he was trying to clear the air? Vyvyan raised an eyebrow.

“Neil, is something the matter with you?” he asked, perturbed and unsettled by his housemate’s behaviour. True, Neil wasn’t the happiest guy ever but he also wasn’t this passive aggressive without more provocation most of the time. The punk stomped his foot in frustration, “And stop ignoring me, you whining girl!”

This got him more of a reaction. Neil spun around, frowning.

“That’s right, Vyvyan, bring me down even more! That’s, like, just what I need: loads and loads of heavy vibes from you when I’m already not feeling great!” he complained, crossing his arms. The punk couldn’t believe this! Arguments between him and Neil never usually got this nasty so fast!

“I haven’t given you any vibes!” he protested, pretty sure that he was correct, “I just wanted food! Anyway, I’ve changed my mind now if you’re going to moan so much.” He hadn’t, really, Vyvyan was most definitely still hungry. He knocked over one of the chairs as if this proved his point before striding towards the telly.

This was all wrong. Yes, he’d been mind-numbingly bored but he hadn’t wanted to fix it by rowing with Neil. He switched the telly on and sprawled across the couch.

“Are you coming? Bastard Squad should be on soon,” the punk yelled back at the hippie in the kitchen. This was his peace offering, he was saving his real anger for another. In fact, Vyvyan wouldn’t act like he knew what was up with Neil, although he wasn’t blind to the reality that the hippie appeared to struggle a lot - he was a medical student after all. He was hoping his housemate would respond when he heard the sound of feet dragging across the floor. Looking up, he grinned and budged aside to let him sit down, “Brilliant!”

Bastard Squad did start not long after that and the two didn’t speak much while it was on. Vyvyan noticed Neil’s mood growing a touch lighter as he got more into the programme and for this he was glad. About half way through, on compulsion, he reached over and wrapped an arm around Neil’s shoulders, a gesture of… well, Vyvyan wasn’t quite sure, actually. Still, he felt confident enough to do it. Neil looked over at him, surprised.

“What are you doing, Vyv?” he questioned, not sounding nearly as cross as he had earlier. Vyvyan shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just trying to be nice, I suppose. I mean, it’s only us,” he pointed out, trying to sound nonchalant about it and ignore the way his heart rate was beginning to pick up. The hippie seemed to consider this and nodded.

“Well, thanks then,” he replied eventually - or what simply felt as long for the punk, “That’s cool.”

They continued watching the telly until the dot came on the screen and even then it was only the return of Rick and Mike that separated them. Something had shifted, Vyvyan mused later as he bashed the people’s poet’s head against a doorframe, something he was alright with.


	4. You have... personalised pajamas... made especially for you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyvyan makes a couple of interesting discoveries about Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by shotsofnovacaine on Tumblr.

“Vyvyan, you utter bastard!”

It was a normal night in the house on Codrington Road. Mike had shuffled off to bed some time ago and Neil was in his room with the door shut, presumably meditating or doing anything to distract himself from sleep and the arguing punk and poet not too far away. Rick was stranded outside his room with nothing but his trusty biro for company, his blood boiling for one reason and one reason alone: Vyvyan ruddy Basterd!

“Open the door now!” he demanded loudly. He had been hammering insanely on the wood but it had been futile. Vyvyan wasn’t letting him in. From within the room, Rick thought he heard a chuckle. The very nerve! What was Vyvyan even doing in there? A part of the poet REALLY didn’t want to know and he felt his stomach twist at the prospect of going to sleep when the punk could have done literally anything. Maybe - and Rick prayed to Cliff that this wasn’t true - Vyvyan was playing with explosives again.

“No!” the voice of his housemate finally replied, even louder than Rick had been, “I’m not giving you your room back until you tell me what you’ve done with my bat, bogey-bum!”

Rick rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time and crossed his arms. This again!

“I’ve told you that I don’t know where it is! I didn’t take it!” he complained, “Now give me my woom back, you fascist, or I’ll… I’ll… I’ll call the police! Do you hear that, Vyvyan? I bloody will, you know!” In his fury it appeared Rick had forgotten he was an anarchist. Vyvyan laughed again.

“No you won’t! You’re too girly and scared to ever do that! Anyway, they’d probably just beat you up ‘cos you’re so ugly!” he snapped back smugly. Rick raised an eyebrow; it wasn’t unusual for Vyvyan to insult his appearance but it did feel oddly out of place here.

Sounds of stomping and rustling began emanating from the bedroom, causing Rick to leap towards the door once more and kick it pathetically, hurting his foot and meaning he had to momentarily bite his fist to stop Vyvyan from finding out. The poet was about to say something tremendously witty and scathing to the punk about how ungraceful his movements were when the noises abruptly stopped. Then, much to the surprise of both of them, Vyvyan thrust open the door and pulled Rick inside roughly by the collar of his bed shirt. Rick yelped slightly before being tossed on to his bed. He immediately jumped back up.

“Wight. Get out of my bedwroom!” he spluttered indignantly, shaking with a mix of outrage and shock and pointing firmly at the open doorway. Naturally, Vyvyan completely ignored him. He seemed distracted by something. What was it? Rick followed his line of vision and had to suppress a gulp: he had noticed the ever so slightly unique-looking floorboard. The poet sat back down to steady himself.

There was that mischievous glint in the punk’s eyes that Rick oh so loathed.

“Is that a keyhole, Rick?” Vyvyan asked in the most falsely innocent voice he could muster, stepping slowly closer to the bed, “You wouldn’t be hiding stuff from the rest of us, would you?” He was so clearly enjoying this, the bastard. Still, Rick remained defiant - despite the fact that if his stomach had been twisting before it was practically backflipping now! He cleared his throat and squirmed away.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“I think you do.”

Then Vyvyan was suddenly very close indeed. In fact, if Rick wasn’t mistaken, the punk was using his hands and arms to pin the poet’s legs down so that he couldn’t move any further away. Vyvyan jutted his head forwards until his face was all Rick could see. Those blue eyes were intense. Rick grimaced at him and laughed weakly.

Something big was definitely about to happen - if Vyvyan’s smirk was anything to go by - when the punk frowned in confusion and drew back. Rick let out a shaky breath of disappointment and managed to ask a raspy, “What?”

Vyvyan stood to his full height again and scrunched his face up before speaking, although not in the bellowing tones he usually used.

“You have… personalised pajamas… made especially for you?” he asked, sounding perhaps even more confused than Rick felt. The poet looked down briefly at the stitching on his bed shirt - it had been done by Mummy before he’d started at Scumbag College and simply said ‘Richard’ in the flowery, cursive font she was fond of. Rick glanced back at the punk questioningly, not seeing the issue and secretly hoping they could get back to whatever it was they were doing mere moments ago.

“Yes?”

Vyvyan massaged his temples and flushed pink. He began backing out of the room.

“Bloody hell, anyone but him…” Rick thought he heard the other student muttering incredulously to himself as he hurried across the landing.

What had just happened? The people’s poet had no clue. More importantly, what was he going to do about the uninvited bulge in his pants?


	5. Flea markets don't carry fleas, you know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Vyvyan argue at a flea market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by kitmarloweki on Tumblr.

Sometimes – may Cliff forgive his soul – Rick detested the working class.

This wasn’t to say he was secretly a wannabe lefty with less political convictions than Neil had happy memories… of course he wasn’t! Where would anyone get an idea like that from? Rick was simply fed up with the average cockney wheeler-dealer who overcharged for secondhand tat at the flea markets. It was a reasonable reason to detest the working class, he told himself, only this once. He was still the people’s poet; he was still all in favour of raising a people’s army of these very cockneys with him as their leader. He would have just preferred it if they put their efforts into overthrowing Thatcher rather than refusing to accept his perfectly fair offer.

“What do you mean 23p isn’t enough!?” he demanded, waving his purse at the particular salesman who was clearly overcharging for his Cliff Richard records. Rick was fully aware of what masterpieces they were but that didn’t excuse scroungers from selling them to the kids for extortionate prices!

“Look, I’ve told you five times, spotty!” the con artist bellowed right back at him, “£1.99! Now – either hand over the money or BUGGER OFF!!! Alright?” He turned away from him, focusing on his next unsuspecting customer. Rick trembled and quickly put his hands on his hips to disguise this embarrassing fact. Typical! He might as well ruddy well leave then, that would show the fascist! In a more subdued fashion than he would have liked, Rick did just that, turning to give the man the two fingered salute once he was far enough away.

“You really are a poof, aren’t you?” Vyvyan suddenly spoke up from behind him, causing the poet to jump.

“Don’t sneak up on me, you bastard!” Rick grumbled crossly, “You made me drop my purse!” At this, Vyvyan had the audacity to laugh. He didn’t even help the poet pick up the fallen change, either.

“Proves my point really, doesn’t it?” he instead said. Rick blushed crimson.

“Oh! Oh! That’s very forward-thinking of you, isn’t it, Vyvyan? I suppose you think all men have to go around clutching great glasses of beer whilst the women make them dinner, too?” he ranted. The punk just laughed again and grinned at him.

“It’s hardly my fault people aren’t willing to accept the complete rip off of an underpayment you’re offering them,” he pointed out smugly. He was able to see through Rick’s agitation far too easily.

“Well it’s hardly MY fault you decided to tag along in the first place, is it?” Rick retorted, “I haven’t seen you buy anything either.” This was true. Both of them, despite having been in the middle of a busy street in the middle of London for a few hours, were still empty-handed where goods were concerned.

“I’m not buying,” Vyvyan told him, scrunching his face up in satisfaction, “I’m selling.”

Now it was Rick’s turn to laugh.

“Selling? You? What on earth does someone like you have to sell?” he snorted, “Half a tube of used hair gel? Five empty bottles of vodka? This is pitiful, Vyvyan, it really is!”

However, despite Rick’s attempts at mockery, the punk remained undeterred. He took off his denim jacket and shook it roughly over the pavement. Rick quickly jumped away in disgust as hundreds – no, thousands – of filthy fleas scattered on to the concrete and began scuttling away towards ignorant shoppers. Well, most of them did. There were definitely a few dead ones.

“And what was that in aid of?” Rick snapped peevishly. The nasty things could have escaped on to him, for all he knew! He lifted his feet uncertainly one by one to check the soles of his boots.

“You said this was a flea market!” Vyvyan replied, as if the answer was obvious, “I’ve got tons of fleas, it would be selfish of me to keep them all to myself!”

What was he suggesting? Rick face palmed and began walking in the direction of the house. As he did so, a confused Vyvyan by his side, he couldn’t help but snicker.

“Vyvyan,” he eventually got out, “Flea markets don’t carry fleas, you know? You can’t sell the cweepy-cwawlies that you never bothered to wash out of your wevolting clothes!” He was almost crying with mirth – just wait until Mike heard about this! The cool person might finally see Rick as the superior member of the household that he was! Unfortunately, one of the consequences of laughing at Vyvyan that Rick had forgotten was about to come crashing into his stomach…

“Oi!” the punk raged, dragging the now doubled over poet back up painfully by his braids to face him. He didn’t look terribly angry, though. In fact, he looked more like he was about to-

And that’s when it happened: before Rick knew what – or, more appropriately, who – had hit him, he felt Vyvyan’s lips on his. It was brief and not exactly gentle; when Rick checked the mirror later he would find his lip bleeding. Vyvyan tasted of cigarette smoke and a faint hint of the vodka Rick had joked about earlier. All of these new sensations were present and so very intense, until suddenly they weren’t. Rick frowned in confusion.

“If you ever bring up flea markets around the others, I’ll just mention that!” the punk warned him, a devilish grin on his pale face.

“But you- you kissed me!” Rick protested, conscious that his own face was probably extremely flushed. A look of apprehension flitted momentarily across Vyvyan’s eyes before he smirked.

“But you didn’t pull away! You enjoyed it!”

“Pfft! Enjoyed it? You’re the one who enjoyed it, matey!”

Vyvyan took off running down the street then. Rick, still shocked and winded, took a few seconds to comprehend this and then he ran after him.

“YOU ENJOYED IT!”

“NO! YOU DID!”


	6. Hey, hey, calm down. They can't hurt you anymore.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyvyan and Rick have nightmares on the same night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by thepunkanarchist on Tumblr.

Rick Pratt and Vyvyan Basterd were very different people. One thing, however, they had in common was that neither of them liked being vulnerable in front of others. Granted, one of them was much better at making sure this never happened than the other but the basic desire was present in both of them. This was why, in the dead of night whilst the house slept, night terrors could pose such a threat to this simple instinct the two possessed.

Vyvyan’s nightmares – which likely happened less than Rick’s but still more frequently than the punk would care to admit – were always old childhood memories dredged up with a psychedelic, dreamlike twist that no conscious person would let spook them. Especially not someone like Vyvyan. He was five years old and his mum was angry and drunk and he couldn’t escape; he was eight years old and one of his mum’s boyfriends had caught him with his cigarettes; he was thirteen years old and being spun around more foster families than he could count, none of whom wanted him and all of whom tried to mould him into their perfect son, someone Vyvyan would never be. When he woke up from these hellscapes, his heart pounding through his ribcage and adrenaline climbing up his throat, Vyvyan was well practised in calming himself down. Years and years of experience were helpful, in that respect.

He didn’t cry, alright?

Okay… maybe once… twice… three times at the most. But that was it!

Rick’s nightmares, on the other hand, were never so neatly contained. They weren’t about traumas from his past – although school bullies sometimes put in an appearance. No, when Rick woke up in his horrifyingly dark room, tied up in his sheets and gasping for breath, he couldn’t stop the saltwater that flowed down his cheeks. Rick’s nightmares weren’t about the things that had been; they were about the things that could be. Possibly.

And that was terrifying.

It happened then, quite by chance, that night terrors should strike the two boys on the same night. Perhaps it had happened before? Perhaps not? The important point was that it had happened on this night. Their bedrooms were just too foreboding tonight, for some reason. Even Vyvyan’s mind couldn’t help but reel with creepy fantasies.

“WRUDDY HELL!!!”

“WOULD YOU SHUT THE HELL UP!?!”

Vyvyan making Rick jump wasn’t exactly unheard of. In fact, the punk wouldn’t have reacted so strongly or loudly if it hadn’t been 3:30am and he wasn’t still on edge. Besides, there was no need for Rick to shit himself over the fact that he wasn’t the only one downstairs looking for a glass of water, was there?

“Oh, Vyvyan,” the poet sighed out, something akin to a sob bubbling up. A sob of relief? Was he shaking, too? It was hard to tell in the gloom, “I didn’t… I didn’t wealise it was you.” The water in the glass he was holding was trembling – he must have been shaking, then. Vyvyan furrowed his brow.

“No need to scream your head off,” he grunted back, stomping over to the sink to get his own drink. God knew his mouth was dry.

“I think it was a very good idea, thank you very much,” Rick continued unexpectedly. Unfortunately, despite whatever was bothering him, there was still that air of superiority hidden within the shakes. He attempted a snort of derision, “If a burg- if a burg- if a thief broke in then dying quietly hardly seems like the better option to me.”

Vyvyan was inclined to laugh at Rick’s verbal stumbling. At least, he would have been if he hadn’t just woken up from one of the worst nightmares he had had in a while.

“I can’t be bothered to fight with you,” he instead found himself confessing rather honestly. Too honestly. At Rick’s silence, presumably caused by surprise, the punk decided to explain why. It couldn’t hurt, could it? He could still rip the poet a new one if he so much as tittered, “I- I had a nightmare and I’m not in the mood.” Purposefully, as if his last comment had never been uttered, Vyvyan took his glass of water to the sofa and sat down with a plop. He wouldn’t allow himself to relax, though.

After what felt like an eternity of dire silence, Rick finally spoke up again.

“Oh.” There was a gulping noise. Vyvyan turned to face him suddenly.

“’Oh’? Is that all?” he barked out. He could have at least laughed and given the punk a target for all of this nervous energy!

“Yes, well… I’ve had one too, actually,” Rick clarified in the quietest voice Vyvyan had ever heard him use, “I suppose that makes the both of us.” Now the poet laughed – it was weak and awkward, no invitation for a beating. Vyvyan exhaled loudly and rubbed his eyes.

“Come here,” he ordered, “I’m fed up of you hovering where I can’t see you.” This statement contained the truth, although it was buried deeply. It was often a good idea to keep an eye on Rick; he was always up to something weird and it was better to be aware of what. That said, this time Vyvyan just didn’t want to sit alone. Downstairs was just as dark as upstairs and that wasn’t going to change until sunrise. If Rick was feeling anything like what Vyvyan was feeling – and the evidence suggested he was truly feeling worse – he probably wouldn’t mind.

Predictably, Rick did join him. They sat opposite ends of the sofa. They were still alone.

Abruptly, after what could have been ten seconds but could easily have also been ten minutes, Rick crumpled and began crying.

Rick Pratt and Vyvyan Basterd each detested being vulnerable in front of other people. Vyvyan, undoubtedly, was better at self-preservation… or was he just better at hiding?

“Hey,” he mumbled, sitting up to reach out to Rick. Why was he doing this? “Hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.” Whoever ‘they’ were didn’t matter; Rick was so uptight Vyvyan wouldn’t have been surprised if his own conscience was the one tormenting him as he slept. The poet looked up and Vyvyan could at last get a good view of him: watery eyes, quivering lip, shiny cheeks. Yet, this didn’t make the punk happy as it usually would have.

"Vyvyan?"

“Come here,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely for Rick to get closer to him.

It only took Rick a moment to comply, which was testament to how upset he was, Vyvyan told himself. That was all. Definitely.

They snuggled until dawn.


	7. <Show me what's behind your back.> <If you can't sleep... we could have sex?>

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyvyan finds himself sneaking off to Mike's bedroom at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by royallmayall on Tumblr.

It was stupid. In fact, no, it was more than that – it was bloody stupid. If he was ever caught sneaking off up to the attic at 1:00am then life as Vyvyan knew it would be changed forever. Why on earth, he asked himself as he knocked on the door of the uppermost room in the house, did he keep on doing this? The answer became obvious as soon as the door opened.

It was all Mike’s fault.

The cool person had his sunglasses on even at this hour, the light streaming through the doorway causing Vyvyan to wince offering an explanation as to why and how. Vyvyan admired the shine of his hair. From behind his shades, Mike cocked an eyebrow at the punk in front of him. He removed the cigarette he hadn’t actually been smoking from his mouth.

“Show me what’s behind your back,” he asked casually, stepping aside to let Vyvyan enter. Vyvyan followed Mike into the bedroom and smirked slightly at the array of bras that constantly seemed to litter the floor. True, most of them still had visible tags on them but this didn’t stop Mike from appearing as though he was a man with experience. At least to Vyvyan.

“What? Apart from my bottom?” the punk replied in that purposefully obtuse manner he had perfected after living with the likes of Rick for so long. He knew Mike wouldn’t mind a bit of teasing as long as he gave in eventually. The smaller man chuckled and shut the door, motioning for him to sit down on the bed. Thankfully, Vyvyan noted, that cheap blow up doll was nowhere to be seen; he always felt better when he knew there were no distractions, no matter how pathetic and girly that might have made him seem to other people.

“Technically your bottom’s below your back, Vyv,” Mike pointed out as he joined him on the bed. He removed his sunglasses now so that Vyvyan could see those dark eyes that excited him to such a ridiculous degree. This action must have caused a spike of arousal in the punk’s demeanour for Mike suddenly smiled playfully at him and chuckled again, “Besides, I reckon I’m fairly acquainted with your bottom by now. There wouldn’t be much point in you hiding it.”

Vyvyan blushed – dammit! He wasn’t entirely used to the subtleties and cheekiness that flirting apparently involved. There was still an instinctual desire within him to lash out when things got a bit… well, poofy. He was getting better though; this was Mike, after all, Mike! There would be plenty of opportunities to lash out in a different way soon enough, he hoped. Undoubtedly, it was time to get to the point and in more ways than one: Vyvyan handed over the packet of condoms he had been guarding vigilantly for the past few hours.

“I had to go to the chemist’s today,” he explained briefly, “I needed stuff for class.” Mike skim-read the labelling before turning to face the punk once more.

“Well, A grade for your homework, Vyv, A grade,” he praised him, “Do you want paying back for this?” Vyvyan shook his head and winked conspiratorially.

“No, it’s alright. I used the money Rick doesn’t know his parents sent him last Wednesday.”

They both laughed.

As Mike began to open the packet, Vyvyan’s breath hitched in his throat. He decided it was worth making his intentions clearer, just in case.

“I could hear you pacing about up here, you see, Michael,” he told him, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, “I just thought… if you can’t sleep… we could have sex?” Well, there was no clearer way of putting it then that. Vyvyan was reassured when Mike moved closer to him.

“That was very thoughtful of you, Vyvyan,” he murmured against the punk’s jawline, making the already stiffened hair on his scalp prickle further.

“I’ve been working on my bedside manner,” he managed to respond. That sounded like a reasonable comeback, didn’t it? Vyvyan closed his eyes and leaned into the cool person’s touch. This was more like it! He heard Mike give a breathy laugh.

“I think you might be the ultimate cure for lonely nights.”


	8. Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funerals just aren't fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by shotsofnovacaine on Tumblr.

The day Rick said goodbye to his parents for the last time was a beautiful day. The weather couldn’t have been nicer; the temperature more pleasant; his clothes less spotless. This, of course, didn’t make the funeral any more bearable for the poet. If anything, it added insult to injury: how dare the sun shine so brightly on the day that had been selected to acknowledge his parents’ passing! Rick hadn’t realised even balls of fire could subscribe to fascism! Typical! He flicked a V at the sky before wiping his damp eyes again.

No.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t cry. Not now. Not when it was nearly over.

The people’s poet had left the chapel once the service had finished and was leaning on one of its walls, desperate to keep out of view of his pompous extended family. He hadn’t been able to afford any sort of wake for afterwards so he was hoping they would just go now – please, let them just go. Rick had already had to deal with countless pathetic attempts at sympathy and condolences. Come to think of it, he had even had to console a few of his aunts when they had burst into tears mid-sentence. He was just so exhausted.

“Where’s Richard gotten to?” a shrill voice called out from the front of the chapel. Rick stiffened and closed his eyes; don’t let them come looking, don’t let them come looking, don’t let them come-

“He’s just thanking the vicar, Mrs P,” Mike responded. The cool person had been pumping up his charm to the maximum all day, which honestly had been useful, though Rick didn’t feel like admitting it. His three housemates had been on their best behaviour; there wasn’t a smashed window or firey explosion in sight. If he hadn’t been tired and depressed, Rick may have found this suspicious; as it was, he was almost grateful. Still, the disapproving tsking noises his grandmother was now making – as if she knew Mike was somehow lying – didn’t do much to improve his spirits.

Yes, having the others with him had meant less pointed comments than he would have expected otherwise but it hadn’t stopped them altogether. His extended family had never exactly been fond of Rick. They thought… well they thought he was into blokes.

Which he was. Not that it was any of their ruddy business!

“Yeah, um, Rick asked us to thank you… for, like, coming and all…” he heard Neil say uneasily. Couldn’t the hippie make anything sound right?

“He isn’t going to thank me himself, then? I have lost my son, you know!” his grandmother replied haughtily. Rick had never liked her. Thankfully, though, he soon heard the clacking sound of her heels against the ground as she strode off.

“If you cared that much you could have at least helped with the organisation,” the poet muttered to himself, sighing as his chest ached, “What am I going to do now?”

“You could finally give yourself a break?” a certain punk suggested. Rick looked up to see his boyfriend’s – yes, you read that correctly, pervies – spiky head peeking around the corner of the chapel wall. He chuckled humourlessly but didn’t move, letting Vyvyan come to him.

“How bad is it?” Rick asked nervously once the other boy was close enough for him to speak quietly.

“Not so bad,” Vyvyan assured him, he too speaking rather softly, “Your family are all wankers like you said obviously, but I think they were more bothered by me than you.” Rick turned to look at him, that wicked grin he knew so well now adorning the punk’s face. He was obviously trying to amuse him, maybe make him feel a tiny bit better. It wasn’t going to work.

“Ah well,” the poet instead sighed out, crossing his arms and staring at the grass, “At least it’s over with.” He could move on now, couldn’t he? That’s what everyone else always did, wasn’t it? All he had to do was collect his stuff, sell the house, find work, get his own house, act like an adult and… and…

“Has it given you-” Rick noticed Vyvyan scrunching his face up out of the corner of his eye as the punk grappled for the right words, “Has it given you closure, Rick?” He sounded so unsure and gentle; none of this was normal. Rick’s resolve crumbled and he swore.

“No, actually, Vyvyan!” he snapped, “It hasn’t, alwright? I still feel absolutely awful and my parents are still dead! That would make most people pwretty, blummin’ misewrable!” He wiped jerkily at his eyes. Breathing was quickly becoming more difficult as the realisation that he had to somehow go on in this world after today sank in. Why did his parents have to die? Why couldn’t it have been Neil’s or Mike’s – if he had any – or Vyvyan’s mum? It wasn’t fair!

Vyvyan didn’t respond with violence or fury at Rick’s outburst, which perhaps he might have done on any other day. He simply stepped in front of the poet and put his hands on his shoulders.

“Rick, look at me,” he told him, lifting the other boy’s chin, “None of us expect you to be happy.” Rick shook his head and wiped at his eyes again.

“I’m sorry, Vyv-”

The punk stopped him here with a kiss to the forehead.

“Don’t apologise.”

“I- I just- I don’t know what to do now! The funewal’s over – what’s next?” Rick sniffed and went on, “I’m scawred. I’m weally, weally scawred.” He was bloody terrified, more like! The poet’s vision went blurry with fresh tears and he collapsed into Vyvyan’s frame, his body wracked with sobs. He couldn’t go on like this!

To his credit, Vyvyan quickly caught him and held on tightly. He seemed to have almost frozen in place; his heartbeat was fast, Rick could feel it. The two were silent for a moment before Vyvyan spoke.

“I’m sorry about this, love,” he whispered, voice thick, “I’m not that good with emotional bollocks.” This admission made Rick laugh in spite of everything and pull himself back up to look at his boyfriend’s unhappy face.

“Vyv?”

There were tears in the punk's eyes. Vyvyan laughed.

“Like I said, not too good with… emotion stuff,” he reiterated, clearing his throat, “Things will get better, though, they’re bound to. Just… just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.” Vyvyan shut his eyes and exhaled, “I don’t like seeing you sad when there’s nothing I can do about it.” His underlying frustration was evident. When the punk opened his eyes, the poet smiled at him; a very small smile.

Life wasn’t cheery today and it probably wouldn’t be tomorrow but, Rick realised, he had someone by his side whom he’d never expected to have before: he had Vyvyan. They would be okay.


	9. Highschool AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if The Young Ones took place in a highschool?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by salamander-bastard on Tumblr.

_…crop rotation in the fourteenth century was considerably more widespread after John Lloyd invented the patent crop rotator…_

By Cliff, school was boring.

There were so many other, far more useful and interesting things Rick could have been doing at this moment rather than forcing his eyes to glaze over the barely legible words of his history textbook. Why did they only learn about this boring tosh, anyway? Revolutions weren’t going to be started by farming techniques. Why couldn’t the fascist behind the desk teach them about the Russian Revolution or Trotsky? Obviously, Rick already knew everything there was to know about this and would have been a far superior educator on the subject but the old bag could have at least tried!

“Rick?” Neil was pestering him. Curse the register for putting them in alphabetical order; he was getting pretty fed up of having to sit next to such a useless hippie in nigh on every lesson.

“What?” Rick grumped.

“Miss, like, asked you a question.”

Shit.

“Thank you, Mr Pye,” the teacher quipped. To Rick’s horror, he realised that the teacher was stood right in front of his desk and was glaring at him from behind her glasses. A hand came down to slam his textbook shut. “Would you care to repeat the last sentence you read, Mr Pratt?”

Oh no. What had it been? Something about… crop rotation? The fourteenth century?

“Umm…” he squeaked out, awfully aware that all eyes were now on him, “Cwop wotation in the fouwrteenth century was much more widespwead-”

“Considerably more widespread,” Neil interrupted.

Rick turned to glare at him with the fury all teenagers possessed and Neil shrugged as if he had been forced to point out this insignificant error by a higher power. A few sniggers sounded around the room, making Rick cringe. Trust Neil to ruin his near-spotless academic and social reputation! His eyes strayed to the next set of desks where Mike was smirking at him with his eyebrows raised. Great – now Mike thought he was hopeless!

“Is there something amusing, Mr-”

“No, no, Miss, nothing amusing here,” Mike assured the teacher, “Well, unless you mean my pal Vyvyan, ‘cause he’s very amusing.”

Vyvyan – who had somehow managed to sit himself next to Mike this lesson despite his actual seat being further away from Rick and Neil – grinned. Worryingly, he was writing something. Rick knew from experience that Vyvyan writing in class wouldn’t be for educational purposes…

The teacher sniffed angrily.

“Mr Pratt?”

Rick jumped, earning him more sniggers.

“C-cwop wotation in the fouwrteenth century was CONSIDEWABLY more widespwead after… after…” he struggled on, feeling quite keenly the silent rage of the woman before him. What had he just read!? Why on earth hadn’t his brain taken it in!? Rick coughed rather awkwardly. “1172!” he declared.

As anyone else could have predicted, at this pitiful answer the entire class burst into laughter. Rick lashed out and shoved Neil, even though Neil was the sole person besides the teacher not to be laughing.

“MR PRATT!” the teacher exclaimed, causing Rick to jump again and emit an embarrassing whimper. More raucous laughter was heard from a certain nearby desk.

“1172?” Vyvyan repeated, “You really are stupid, bogey-bum, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah? As if you know the answer, fascist!” Rick retorted snottily. The class groaned at his expected insult and Rick spluttered with indignation, “But he is!”

There was a sudden loud crack of a ruler against Rick and Neil’s desk.

“RIGHT!” the teacher bellowed, “You four – detention, after school, tonight!” She pointed at each of the young ones individually, a scowl of deep-seated hatred burning on her face.

“But, Miss!” all four of them protested simultaneously.

“No! That’s my final word!” she cut across. It was typical of a teacher, really: give four pupils detention when only three were guilty. Who was the innocent party? Well, that would depend upon who you asked. Rick, for example, was certain it was him and that was all that mattered. The other pupils in the class shifted about in their seats; some nervously at the prospect of a truly pissed off teacher, some with amusement at the four most unpopular members of the school being put in detention. The teacher stormed over to Mike and Vyvyan’s desk and snatched the bit of paper the punk had been writing on. “And what is this, Mr Basterd? ‘Prick is a wonker. Signed, the rest of the class.’”

Vyvyan smiled up at her with fake innocence and batted his eyelashes.

“Something wrong, Miss?”

The room held its breath – Neil hid under his hair; Rick withdrew into his blazer; even Mike’s stoney façade faltered a touch.

“Yes, you’ve spelt ‘wanker’ wrong,” the teacher remarked, peering at the messy scrawl, “Apart from that, it’s fine. In fact, I think I’ll sign it too.”

There were definitely far better things Rick could have been doing that day.


	10. I don't want you to be alone right now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyvyan gets a little too drunk and Rick is concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by theevilesteviled on Tumblr.

Vyvyan got like this sometimes – blind drunk. Unsurprisingly, it usually happened after he had been drinking heavily. Like tonight. Therefore, he was faintly shocked, somewhere in his subconscious, that his boyfriend had managed to drag him upstairs into the bathroom before the spewing had begun.

To say Rick wasn’t best pleased with the punk would have been the understatement of the century; Rick was bloody livid and Vyvyan’s eardrums were paying the price.

“This is totally iwesponsible!” he berated him for about the seventh time from next to the toilet bowl that Vyvyan was currently hunched over. “It’s your 21st birthday, for pity’s sake! All of your fwiends are down there-”

“Well they can pish off!” Vyvyan snapped, weary yet incensed at the mention of the punks downstairs. He spat into the bowl and the movement made his stomach churn stubbornly with malice and too much alcohol. Vyvyan groaned, bringing up yet more delights. Beside him, he could hear the so-called anarchist sniffing in mild disgust.

There was a brief silence where Vyvyan coughed the rest of the bile up and his vision became ever so slightly clearer – a good sign… probably. He couldn’t really remember what the good and bad signs of drunkenness he had learnt on his course were. Were there even good signs? Medically? Vyvyan didn’t know; he didn’t much care. He was about to tell Rick to bugger off when the silly twat sat down next to him with a sigh.

“Vyvyan?” Rick was saying more gently now, rubbing circles into his back like he was a bloody child who needed comfort when being sick, “Vyv, is something wrong? You’ve not been yourself all night – even before, well, before you downed that entire cwate of babysham-”

“’nd the ten bottlesss of vodka.”

“And the ten bottles of vod- ten!? Blummin’ flip, Vyvyan! How are you alive!?”

The punk winced at the proximity of Rick’s sudden raise in volume. He knew they were both quite loud people but by God did Rick sound extra so when Vyvyan was pissed. The poet must have sensed this.

“Sorry…” Apologies from Rick Pratt? This really was the night for everything. Rick continued rubbing his back. “That’s not important… has something happened?” He sounded almost scared, which Vyvyan thought was a little pathetic but then this was Rick.

“Go away,” the punk slurred at him, as he should have done earlier. He heard Rick exhale in frustration.

“I’m not wruddy well going to leave you like this, am I?” he pointed out, “Let me at least take you to your bedwoom-”

“’twas her, alright?” Vyvyan quickly confessed, not wanting to move just yet. He wasn’t sure he was physically able anymore.

“Her?” Rick prompted in confusion.

“Yeah,” Vyvyan agreed with a nod. He groaned again and the bowl of toilet water and vomit throbbed before his eyes.

“You mean… your mother?” Rick asked quietly. Vyvyan inclined his head an inch.

“Bitch.”

It wasn’t a particularly good or original insult, nor was Vyvyan proud of the strain even he could pick out in his voice as he said it. That bloody woman! Why had he invited her again? Oh yes, because he had wrongly assumed that that was what you did for milestones – you invited your parents. It had been Rick’s fault, really, he had pestered Vyvyan into asking her. The punk should have known she had only accepted for the free booze and… other things. Certainly not for her son.

“What has she done, Vyv?” Rick questioned, still quiet but steelier, “The last I saw she was talking to your frwiends-”

“Tha’sss not all she was doin’ with ‘em…”

Vyvyan was very bitter, maybe he had been for a long time. His mum had never shown him any kind of affection and it wasn’t as if his friends were that different to him. What was worse – they were his age and she didn’t seem to mind getting all close and-

He threw up again. Rick patted his back more urgently.

“Oh,” he said.

“Will you go away now, Wicky?” Vyvyan asked him, trying purposely to rouse his temper.

For a moment, the punk thought it might have worked: Rick had gone silent and his headache sounded louder than the external world. But the bathroom door never opened. Suddenly, there was the sensation of a damp cloth over Vyvyan’s forehead. Where Rick had gotten this from, Vyvyan didn’t want to know. His eyes prickled with unwanted tears.

“I don’t want you to be alone right now,” his boyfriend told him decidedly. There was a note of finality about the statement that Vyvyan knew he couldn’t fight. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he wanted to much. He felt Rick’s hands on his arms. “Come on – I’ll bwing a bucket in case you need it.”

Vyvyan may have started crying then, although it was purely the alcohol in his system and not at all his mum that had caused this. Like the bastard that he was, Rick didn’t call Vyvyan any girly names – which would have been far easier to deal with – and instead just hugged him and whispered soppy words of comfort.

“I’m going to take you to your woom now, Vyvyan.”

“Don’t… don’t go…”

“I’m taking you with me.”

Many things concerning the night of Vyvyan’s 21st birthday would turn foggy in his mind but what wouldn’t was Rick’s presence where nobody else’s had ever been. Huh. Maybe the stupid prick did care about him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is now available in the first issue of the TYO fanzine 'Scumbag Monthly'.*


	11. We don't want you to be alone right now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil seems more glum than usual and Mike and Vyvyan are worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon on Tumblr.

The hardest thing wasn’t hiding it from Rick.

Anyone would have been forgiven for assuming it was: the three of them lived with the smarmy prick and it would only take one slip up for him to discover their relationship. In a way, Vyvyan almost wanted the cat out of the bag, if only to watch Rick squirm whilst he tried to keep up his façade of tolerance. The bastard.

Truthfully, their main reason for their secrecy was Mike’s reputation – it wasn’t that he was ashamed of what they had as such, simply that he had a certain persona to keep up. Rick was awful with secrets and doubtlessly would spill the beans to everyone he knew within a day. So he couldn’t know. Simple.

Neil, of course, didn’t truly mind either way. He was all in favour of free love and sexual positivity and generally good vibes all around but he supposed most people in the world weren’t like that. Otherwise, why did so much heavy stuff go on? Really, the hardest thing for Neil about this bond he shared with the punk and the cool person was that he sometimes felt… well, like the odd one out. The third wheel. The bit on the side. Wait, no, definitely not that last one! That was the crux of the problem, actually: Neil wasn’t a bit, never mind a bit on the side!

When they were alone, it had been discovered quite quickly that Mike and Vyvyan shared the first impulse of rushing upstairs into the attic for a shag. Neil had joined them to begin with, even though his first instinct was different. He wanted contact, sure, but not necessarily such full-on contact. He didn’t enjoy it; it wasn’t him. He worried that this disappointed the other two, that perhaps it drove a wedge between him and them in their relationship. After all, if they were both comfortable with each other and Neil obviously wasn’t – at least in that way – then how long would it be until they cut him out of everything else? That was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it? If he couldn’t please them sexually then what was the point of him being a part of their relationship?

It was such a bummer. Not just as it meant Neil now dreaded Rick leaving the shared house for long periods of time – which was something that anyone should cherish – because he expected Mike and Vyvyan to rush off and do something. Anything. Anything he couldn’t do with them. No, the heavier source of his dread was the fact that Neil knew as soon as his boyfriends were having their fun without him and he heard the tell-tale signs, the thoughts would begin over how the both of them were a mere orgasm away from dumping him.

They had never complained… not that the hippie knew for sure what they told each other when they were curled up together afterwards, when their bond was at its strongest. He hoped the energy between them remained zen at these times; the last thing he wanted was all his negative vibes interrupting and pointing out the glaring truth.

“Do we really need Neil, Michael? He’s good for making the tea and all but… he doesn’t have to be our boyfriend to make us tea, does he?”

“You know, Vyv, that’s perfectly correct. How’s about we break the news to him now?”

“Brilliant!”

It was stupid – not only because he couldn’t imagine Vyvyan complimenting his culinary skills even if the punk was currently his boyfriend and Neil was the only one who used to kitchen for cooking, like, ever. It was also stupid because, despite his eternal worrying, whenever Mike and Vyvyan returned from their adventures in bed and draped themselves around Neil’s long frame to watch the TV or to snuggle, he knew break up was the furthest thing from their minds. He could sense it. Obviously, this made him feel bad all over again for thinking so lowly of his boyfriends.

“Neil?” Vyvyan was addressing him, his face scrunched up in something akin to concern.

“Oh – sorry, Vyv,” Neil told him, “I was, like, lost in thought. What is it?”

Rick had left the shared house about ten minutes ago for a meeting at the Anarchists’ Society and the hippie was waiting patiently for the shagging that didn’t include him to commence.

“Uhh…” Vyvyan looked over to Mike, who nodded discreetly from behind his shades. Wait, was this- oh no! It was happening, wasn’t it!? This was even worse! They were going to break up with him and then have sex! Vyvyan cleared his throat. “Neil, Michael and I are a bit concerned about you.”

The words sounded ever so slightly rehearsed, probably Mike’s doing.

“Concerned?” Neil repeated dumbly.

“Yes,” Vyvyan confirmed.

“You see, Neil… when there’s three peas in the pod, two of ‘em can always tell when the third’s shrivelled,” Mike explained. Both Neil and Vyvyan frowned in confusion. Mike sighed and removed his shades. “You know, we can tell when there’s something up – and more than just the usual – so what is it, huh?”

Suddenly, both of them were stood staring at him. The mild panic this elicited within Neil was further provoked by his sedentary position on the sofa. It was interrogation time.

“Well… well, it’s nothing, right,” Neil fumbled, “I just had, like, an uncool tarot reading, that’s all.”

Vyvyan scoffed and sat down next to him, getting up in face. Before all of this dating business, such closeness with the punk would have scared the hippie half to death.

“That’s the worst lie I’ve heard all day!” the punk declared, “And I had to listen to Rick go on and on about some bird from his sociology course who apparently fancies him before he went out. At least lie better than that bogey-bum!” There was a spark in Vyvyan’s eyes that Neil had come to recognise was amusement. It usually went hand in hand with a grin, though one had not yet emerged.

“Is someone threatening you?” Mike asked, “Someone we know? I’ve got contacts, Neil-”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that, alright?” Neil cut across. Not something one did with Mike. Not normally. “It’s silly, you’re gonna think I’m, like, really pathetic… well, more pathetic than you already probably think I am…”

“Bloody hell! We don’t think you’re pathetic!” Vyvyan, patient as always, groaned in exasperation. He took Neil’s hand and gave him a very serious look. “Okay, stupid?”

“Okay, Vyv.”

“Then tell us, Neil,” Mike encouraged him.

A sigh.

“I just feel… left out, I suppose. When you two are upstairs doing… you know…” He blushed rather ridiculously. “I’m sorry I’m so boring, guys. I try not to be but I-I can’t. I just can’t!”

Where was all this emotion coming from? Neil couldn’t help it – he sniffled and a few tears leaked down his sullen cheeks. Mike and Vyvyan’s reactions were almost instant as they drew closer to him until he was sandwiched in the middle of the sofa. The hippie blew his nose on his sleeve.

“Now, Neil, just who exactly has been telling you that not partaking in certain bedroom activities makes you boring?” Mike questioned gently, tucking a strand of Neil’s hair behind his ear.

“N-no one,” Neil managed to choke out.

“Good, because I’d have to kill them,” Vyvyan remarked casually, “Besides, it’s bollocks anyway.”

“It... it is?”

“Yeah. That doesn’t make you boring – doing a degree in Peace Studies is what makes you boring.”

“Vyvyan,” Mike warned him.

The punk lay down across Neil’s lap and smirked up at him cheekily; he knew what he was doing, his comment had managed to make the hippie laugh. Mike relaxed somewhat and stood up to turn the TV on.

“What side do you want it on?” he asked.

“Don’t you to wanna… like, before Rick gets home?” Neil asked back. The wriggling on his lap appeared to indicate a shake of the head.

“We don’t want you to be alone right now,” Mike told him carefully, returning to the sofa to lean against his boyfriends.

“Also, last time I really knackered him out,” Vyvyan added. He winked up at Neil and was pleased to see a small smile beginning to blossom on the hippie’s face.

“And, just for that comment, we’re not watching Bastard Squad,” Mike told him.


	12. You're not a monster.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the monster!AU: Rick is finding adjusting to life as a vampire hard and isn't sure Vyvyan, a werewolf, understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by theevilesteviled on Tumblr.

The world was fuzzy and muffled. Somewhere in a rational though miniscule part of Rick’s mind, he knew this wasn’t normal. Normal now was supposed to be razor sharp vision and painfully precise hearing. Not the opposite. Not worse than it had been when he was human.

“You look pale – drink your blood,” Vyvyan’s gruff voice instructed him from nearby the couch he was sat on.

“I always look pale these days!” Rick snapped back, trying him damnest to focus on the TV in front of him without squinting, “Or had you forgotten?” The temptation to shut his eyes and rub his head was huge but the poet knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let Vyvyan see him do that. It would be admitting defeat, wouldn’t it? The punk let out a frustrated sigh.

“Rick, you’re a vampire now! You can’t just go on like you were before – you’ll end up dead!” he told him. A mug of thick, crimson liquid was thrust under the poet’s nose. “Drink it, bum-bag, or I’ll force it down your throat.”

In an ideal world – which this certainly was not – Rick would have scrunched his nose up and backed away from the sudden invasive stench of blood. In this world, however, he felt his mouth salivating and some kind of primal urge… almost an ache… stirring within him. It was stirring in parts of Rick that he would rather it didn’t, to be honest; his stomach groaning was one thing but did his groin really have to react so strongly too? It was disgusting.

He was disgusting.

“I-I’m a veg- a vegetawian…” he managed to mumble. Rick’s head throbbed. Cliff, that stuff smelt good! He was so hungry!

“Vampires can’t be vegetarians,” Vyvyan reminded him. Unexpectedly, there was a softness to his voice. Maybe he understood? After all, it wasn’t as if Vyvyan was human either – did he know what it was like to feel so repulsive?

Wait. Of course he didn’t! Vyvyan had been a werewolf since birth, this was child’s play for him! He just pitied Rick, didn’t he? Oh, how pathetic…

“Well, I don’t want to be a vampire!” Rick exclaimed, more stroppily than was really preferable. He could feel his fangs grazing against his wobbling lower lip. No! Oh god, oh god, oh god – no!

The poet pushed the mug of blood away and covered his mouth defensively. Unhelpfully, his eyes were watering and his toes and fingers were starting to feel numb. Without a proper heartbeat it was hard to say but Rick was fairly sure he was about to have a panic attack. In front of Vyvyan. He couldn’t even bite down on his fist to stop himself from crying! Stupid ruddy fangs!

The punk observed his quivering wreck of a housemate and sighed. Just about anyone who knew Rick would have been able to guess that his transition from human to vampire wouldn’t exactly be smooth sailing, especially considering the manner in which his transition had occurred… but that was beef for another day.

“Hey, poof, hey.”

Vyvyan tried being gentle again, sitting down next to Rick and placing the mug of blood on the coffee table. He would get the bastard to drink it, just maybe he needed calming down first. Truthfully, it would be a lie to say that Vyvyan wasn’t the tiniest bit hesitant about touching Rick – vampires were said to be uncomfortably cold – but the punk found that, once he did, the other’s body temperature was actually somewhat soothing. After all, werewolves were prone to overheating during the summer months.

A hand on Rick’s arm; that wasn’t so bad, was it?

The poet let out a girly whimper and flung himself at the punk. It took Vyvyan a few seconds to react but when he was able, he quickly wrapped his arms around him protectively, as if he had been for years. He embraced the coolness. Rick sobbed into his denim jacket, which in any other situation would have been a criminal offence.

“I-I just don’t want to be a m-monster anymore!” Rick admitted after a moment or two, clearly anxious to get it off his chest, “I know I’ve n-not had to put up with it as long as you but... but I just can’t! I’m a wruddy killing machine, Vyvyan!”

The punk furrowed his brow, studs glinting off the drawing room light bulb.

“You’re not a monster.”

The certainty with which he said this stopped Rick in his tracks for a second and his whimpers deceased. What? That statement didn’t make any sense.

“B-but I dwink people’s blood-”

“People who’ve consented to having their blood drunk by vampires at the blood bank, it’s not like you’ve forced them,” Vyvyan pointed out matter-of-factly. He raised an eyebrow. Rick blinked. They both knew Vyvyan was right.

The mug of blood was presented to Rick once more and this time he took it, albeit rather shakily. The punk watched as he sipped at it – though he needn’t have for Rick’s natural thirst soon took over and those sips turned into gulps and the mug was fast empty. The feeling in Rick’s toes and fingers returned as the blood drained away; his head stopped buzzing and the world came back into focus. He wiped his mouth sheepishly.

“Did you mean what you said, Vyv?” he asked with a hint of uncharacteristic shyness, “About… about the monster thing…”

Vyvyan nodded.

“Neither of us are monsters, Rick, trust me on that one,” he told him. Bad thoughts danced in the punk’s eyes, bad thoughts that he banished with a shake of his head. “You’re too girly to be, anyway.”


	13. You deserve love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Vyvyan get high at a house party... one of them considerably more so than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon (who is totally not theevilesteviled) on Tumblr.

He said it rather offhandedly, as if it was a completely normal remark. An established fact. It really wasn’t though; Vyvyan certainly had no recollection of such a thing ever being said to him. Especially not by Rick. The same Rick he had attempted to kill on several occasions.

“Say that again?” Vyvyan asked, squinting at the poet through the slight mist that had gathered in the front room of the shared house. Parties would do that to a place. In fact, it was a miracle that none of the windows had been shattered by the other medical students now that Vyvyan was, well, pre-occupied.

Rick hiccupped.

“You deserve love,” he repeated, giggling a little as if Vyvyan was being silly.

The punk leaned back against the cracked wall the two had settled next to and took another drag on his cigarette. He couldn’t remember how they had gotten here, on the floor, talking about something as girly as love. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the person who had given him the cigarette. Maybe Neil… or Neil… or whatshername… Stonehenge.

What the bloody hell did Rick mean, anyway? That wasn’t the kind of thing you told the person you fought with on a daily basis, was it? Maybe this pathetic hippie weed was stronger than Vyvyan had first thought. After all, the world was feeling a little hazy…

“Poof,” he told Rick casually, far more casually than his honest reply would have been, passing him the cigarette and watching as the poet eagerly inhaled. Rick sighed, apparently content with the world – for now.

“It’s not poofy, Vyvyan,” he asserted. Of course, his tone lacked its usual sharpness and haughtiness, more amused and giddy than anything else. To the punk’s utmost surprise, the poet suddenly shuffled closer until his head was resting on Vyvyan’s left shoulder. “Everyone deserves love – even… even bastards like you.”

Vyvyan frowned.

“Does Thatcher deserve-”

“Don’t contwadict me.”

“That’s not what a contradiction is, stupid!”

Rick giggled again. This was getting a bit ridiculous; where was this going, exactly? Did he have anything in mind? Any great wisdom the people’s poet felt like imparting on a lowly punk such as Vyvyan? He had always been an oblivious fool. Always thought he knew best.

He didn’t.

“I mean it!” Rick insisted. It was if he could sense the punk’s contempt for his suggestion. Rolling his eyes, Vyvyan turned his head to meet with Rick’s: blue, watching yet unfocussed, somehow serious despite their red-rimmed tiredness. It all felt ever so slightly… odd. Rick was a bit too close; a bit too happy; a bit too open.

“You don’t know what you mean, you’re high,” Vyvyan reminded the poet gruffly, “You probably think the rickety chair deserves love too.” He had meant it as a joke but Rick nodded enthusiastically.

“Well, doesn’t it?” he pressed, sitting up again and gazing around the houseful of hippies, punks, anarchists, poets and… Balowskis? When had they turned up? Still, the sight of them didn’t incur the normal tirade of outrage Vyvyan would have expected from Rick. He was smiling! Actually smiling! “Doesn’t everyone here deserve love?” he asked, louder than before.

A cheer resounded throughout the room. Vyvyan sighed.

“Rick, stop messing about before someone smashes your head in,” he told him sternly. Noticing that the poet about to take another puff, Vyvyan quickly snatched the cigarette from him and put it out on the wall. Rick stuck his lower lip out in a sulk; it appeared he was enjoying what was likely his first rebellious exploit. Shocking Vyvyan once more, the poet collapsed back into his side. It was as if he had slotted right into place. No – that was a ridiculous thought.

“You’re quite comfy, Vyv,” Rick informed him matter-of-factly.

“Since when did you call me Vyv?” Vyvyan choked out in surprise.

“I call you Vyv sometimes!”

“Very rarely!”

“Better than never!” Rick pointed out, “Besides… you have a pwretty name.”

That took a few seconds to sink in and it definitely wasn’t just the marijuana slowing down his thoughts. The pompous prick had really just come out and said that. He had, hadn’t he?

“Careful, Rick,” Vyvyan warned him lowly.

“Of what?”

What was perhaps most disturbing was that Rick did truly look confused, as if girly compliments like that were somehow acceptable in this world! In any world!

“Bloody hell! You really are stoned, aren’t you?” Vyvyan laughed, “You’re gonna hate yourself when this wears off.” Maybe there would be something funny to come from this weirdness after all.

Rick shook his head sluggishly.

“No, no, no – and this isn’t about me-” yet another comment that had Vyvyan reassessing everything he thought he knew, “-this is about you deserving love, Vyvyan.”

“So you keep saying, poof,” the punk grumbled back. The fun was clearly going to have to wait. “Go on then: why do I deserve love?”

For a moment, it seemed that Rick wasn’t going to reply. The party bustled on before the two students like it had zapped all their energy for conversation. Vyvyan was about to prod Rick to see if he had fallen asleep when the poet finally answered him.

“It’s because… you pay attention to me,” he revealed, voice a tad softer than before, “And you don’t always want to but you do… like now.”

Oh no.

Vyvyan had been hoping for a reason that would be worthy of his laughter and ridicule. In a dark, secret corner of his mind, he had been hoping just a smidgeon that Rick might have mistakenly confessed that he fancied him and given the punk years’ worth of material to tease him over. This wasn’t either of those things; no, this was worse. This was vulnerability and emotions and heartfelt confessions – all of the things Vyvyan Basterd did not do! Under any circumstances! Not if he could avoid it somehow.

Unfortunately, the tenseness that had developed between them thanks to Rick’s little admission wasn’t something Vyvyan reckoned he could simply ignore.

“So even when you say it’s not about you, it is really,” he summarised. He couldn’t keep his tone mocking or harsh though. There was a new, disgustingly raw element floating around in it now. Without thinking much – he would blame the hippie crap later, if needs be – the punk silently wrapped an arm around Rick. He noticed him close his eyes.

“Poof,” he muttered, unnervingly fondly.

Rick smirked.

“Bastard.”


	14. I'm here for you. (Rivyan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Rick's parents dead and Vyvyan's hopelessly estranged, the two bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by drinkysketch on Tumblr.

Cemeteries were peaceful places, as many often liked to remark. After all, there were a lot of dead people sleeping in them, weren’t there? Well, not sleeping – just rotting away under the soil. People only said they were sleeping as a way of comforting themselves, didn’t they? The lie didn’t comfort Rick very much.

Looking at a slab of rock that had been chiselled into ever so carefully with his parents’ names, birth dates and death date wasn’t exactly the definition of ‘comforting’ to him. It was more of a mocking reminder that, yes, they were dead, actually. More than that, it was the proof that prevented him from pretending otherwise. Did anyone get any closure at all from staring at these ugly things? How could you feel connected to someone when you were just standing on their grave and they weren’t there with you… were they even really in the grave?

Where had they gone?

“I’ve bwought you some flowers...” the poet announced somewhat awkwardly. More specifically, he had brought them some lilies. They were more for his mother than his father; they had been her favourite. Rick lay them down on the muddy earth before the stone. “You should be gwateful – they’ve been stinking Vyvyan’s car out the whole wride here!”

But joking didn’t feel good in the cemetery. Just rude.

Rick glanced up to check on the punk and found him trapesing amongst the stones, peering at a few with mild interest before moving on. His offer of a lift here had been unexpected, Rick had to admit, although not unwelcome. Not, of course, that Rick would be confessing that to him anytime soon. Suddenly, Vyvyan turned towards the poet and grinned at him.

“Hey! A dog’s shat on this one!” he called over.

“Vyvyan!” Rick snapped back automatically, “We’re in a cemetewy! A place of the deawrly departed!”

“So?”

“So show some wruddy wespect!”

Vyvyan merely shrugged on him and continued his aimless wandering. Rick sighed in exasperation and looked down at his parents’ grave once more.

“Sowrry about him,” he muttered crossly, “He’s only here because he can dwive… and because I don’t weally like coming here on my own… I could have found better company than him, though! Even Neil would pwobably have been better than him!”

Was that true? Did Rick honestly want Neil’s awful hippie vibes soiling the place? It wasn’t worth contemplating. That was the end of it. Rick had done his sonly duty and shown up to deliver some flowers – now they could leave. The poet’s gaze honed in on Vyvyan, who had surprisingly stopped a few rows away and appeared to be reading the stone in front of him. Rick rolled his eyes impatiently.

“I’m weady to go now,” he said. Vyvyan didn’t respond. Grumbling childishly, Rick approached the punk and tapped him on the shoulder. “Vyvyan? Have you gone deaf or something?”

There was still no response. Vyvyan looked… almost serious. It was unnerving.

Apprehensive but undeniably curious, Rick too peered down at the gravestone that had gript the punk so intensely. It wasn’t particularly special; there were no flowers or polish or even a little crucifix. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the monumental shock that the name inscribed upon it brought as soon as Rick read it, he would have likely dismissed Vyvyan’s curiosity with it entirely. Yet, there it was – carved in stone – Vyvyan’s name!

A. Basterd  
1939 – 1962

Well, it was nearly Vyvyan’s name. Spookily close. Who else had the surname Basterd? 1962 was just before-

Ah. An uncomfortable, rather foreign feeling slinked into Rick’s stomach.

“Is this your father’s gwave, Vyvyan?” he asked softly. It took a few seconds for the punk to reply.

“I… don’t know…” he admitted, sounding more lost than Rick had ever heard him. His face was still scrunched up in that serious expression like he didn’t understand why the stone was here, “Mum said she never knew him…” The realisation that Ms Basterd might not have been completely truthful about this extremely crucial detail dawned on the two boys quite simultaneously and it was hard to swallow. Rick could tell by the way that Vyvyan’s cheeks were flushing that he wasn’t taking it at all well. “Why would she lie about that!? This has to be a coincidence!”

“Didn’t she lie a lot to-”

“But this is important! She told me he abandoned her before I was born!” Vyvyan ranted, his voice strained. He dropped down to his knees in front of the stone. “What if… what if he was right here all along!?”

This was scary – Vyvyan never got this emotional, not in front of Rick. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t normal.

“Th-then I suppose you’ve found him,” Rick supplied uselessly. He didn’t know what to say to him, having always known his father and where he was. Honestly, a vulnerable Vyvyan seemed more dangerous to the poet than he was to Vyvyan, himself.

“He’ll never-” Vyvyan cut himself off. Rick frowned.

“Never what?” he probed, crouching down beside him and resting a hesitant hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll never come back. Not that I was expecting him to – I’m not a stupid prick like you!” the punk finished defensively, “It’s just… that’s it then. No parents for me to run home crying to.” His tone had shifted to bitterness, which was an emotion Rick knew all too well.

“Yes, well, that’s the both of us then,” he found himself saying before he could help it, “Diffewrent circumstances, obviously! I just mean… well, you know…”

Was the death of his parents – sudden and unexpected though it had been – truly comparable to Vyvyan’s situation? And why did Rick care?

“I do,” Vyvyan told him quietly. In other people, lower volumes were a good sign but with Vyvyan it just signalled that something was deeply wrong. His stomach still churning suspiciously, Rick decided he might as well take a plunge.

“I think we’ll be alwight, though,” he said with fake optimism, even if he wasn’t sure, “I mean, you’ve been coping your entire blummin’ life, haven’t you, Vyv? And I… it’s getting easier… thanks for coming with me today, by the way, even if you wegwet it now…” Rick hadn’t been planning on thanking the punk for his company whatsoever but everything felt more uncertain now. Perhaps gratitude was in order. He sucked in a deep breath. “You pwobably don’t care or even want it fwom me but I’m here for you, okay? Like you were here for me today.”

There was a faint hum from the punk.

“Thanks, you girly knob end.”

Rick sighed again with something akin to fondness and sat down properly next to Vyvyan. The two didn’t say much, simply sitting together and staring at the gravestone, the calmest either had possibly ever been around the other. Eventually, as dusk drew in, they had to leave. Rick pretended not to notice the hand Vyvyan offered him to pull him to his feet or the way this hand didn’t retreat once the two of them were steady and heading towards the gates.

It was nice to know someone was there.


End file.
